


History of Love

by BranwellBronte



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Books, First Kiss, Kissing, M/M, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 13:58:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16934538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BranwellBronte/pseuds/BranwellBronte
Summary: The story of Peglar and Bridgens's first kiss and who made the first move. https://terrorkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/396.html?thread=6028#cmt6028





	History of Love

            “No, it can’t be – not a man so revered that they call him ‘The Great’? Surely he didn’t?” Harry jabs his finger on the page in disbelief, as if it will rearrange the words or erase them.

            They’d also erase his wonder if they didn’t exist, so John lays his own finger next to Harry’s, as if to prove that Harry’s eyes aren’t lying cruelly to him. “Yes. It is recorded by the historian Plutarch, also revered, that Alexander the Great kissed a man, and was encouraged by his troops to do so.”

            Harry rubs his finger on the word “kiss” on the faded page. “It’s…it’s just so unlike anything you’d expect, isn’t it?” He seems to finally notice that his finger is fidgeting on the page and he drops his hand into his lap. His eyes move over the other books on the case across from John’s reading table. “A great man, a great conqueror, a leader of men…kissing another man.” His eyes snap from the bookcase and widen, pupils dilated almost feverishly, as he looks at John. “Maybe it’s not true though. You always hear that the ancient historians can’t be trusted.”

            “Can’t _always_ be trusted,” John says calmly. “But think about it, Harry. Even if it’s not true, someone thought it was, and thought it was so significant that it should be recorded for posterity. And we are that posterity.”

            Choosing the volume of Plutarch for tonight’s reading had been no accident. That morning, John had gently taken Harry’s hands, tears wobbling down Harry’s cheeks and his shoulders shivering, after Harry had choked the words out. “John, I can’t help but thinking…my brain is diseased. And I don’t think a doctor could cure me. I don’t think a doctor would want to go near me. But-” And desperation had sheened his eyes and he’d shaken even harder. “I only mean this about me, not you, I’d never suggest you were diseased, your brain, it’s different than mine, it’s better, it’s smarter, there’s nothing wrong with you, only me-”

John had pressed his thumbs on the backs of Harry’s hands. “Harry. Listen to me. We are not diseased, neither of us. Knowledge has nothing to do with it. I’m not better than you because I’ve read more books. We are side by side in this, complete equals. Loving men is a quality given to us like any other quality, like kindness, curiosity, ambition, compassion. It’s just one more piece that locks into the other pieces of our souls. Locks neatly. Locks naturally. Do you see?”

          

Harry had had his eyes downcast but his body had stilled. He’d said nothing for a few moments until he raised his face and looked tentatively at John. John had squeezed his hands again, and when Harry squeezed back, John’s heart tumbled with relief. He’d recited to Harry the words he himself still remembered when the nights were endless and his bed shared by no one. He’d composed them years ago and he still needed them to calm his pulse and keep his eyes dry when the despair had fogged the window of his mind.

Now, John moves the book closer to Harry as they sit side by side at the table stacked and strewn with other texts and maps. “You keep this one, Harry. Put a bookmark in it and read it when you need comfort.”

Harry gives him a small smile. “Are you sure? I’d be grateful…I mean, it’d be nice to have this handy when I can’t see you…you know, for when I just need a little reminder that I’m alright.” His voice lowers a little and he eyes John with a crooked smile. “It’s really the best gift I could ask for…almost…anyway. It’s also a good reminder I have the best teacher in the world. Beautiful…the book is beautiful.” His smile is shy suddenly and he’s the one that’s beautiful and John’s heart gives a kicking beat. “But are you sure I can keep it? I wouldn’t want to deprive you.”

John looks down and chuckles softly. “You could never do that, Harry.” He doesn’t add, You could never do that because even after you’ve sailed far away from me, I’ll write down everything I remember about you, all our conversations and the things we’ve laughed about, and keep the book I write in pride of place on my shelf. I’ll press your favorite flowers into it. I’ll write “John Bridgens and Harry Peglar, Companions” on the spine in the most precious ink I own. I’ll kiss your name every time I write it. You’ll never know, you’ll be in the sun that shines on the water, but I will know, and that will be enough. Every night before I go to bed, I’ll touch the book and I’ll know how lucky I was to know a pure heart with a sweet laugh and a ravenous passion for knowledge, for the world, for stars too high for science to see. I will become the historian. Neither Heaven nor Hell could burn away my memories. I have a power they’ll never have because I’ve known him.

Because I’ve loved him.

“What?”

John blinks and looks up. “Hmm? Sorry?”

“Him? Who?”

John frowns. “I don’t follow.”

“You said you’ve loved him. Who did you love? Oh – is it alright to ask that? Oh, no. I’m sorry, John. It’s none of my business. Forget about it, please, I’m sorry.”

John feels a stabbing of anxiety in his stomach as dread flows through his veins. He didn’t. Did he? Oh, god. Oh god. “I…”

I was musing aloud about a past love, another man I’d shown this book to, that’s why he was on my mind, why I talked without realizing it, it’s really very simple, it’s-

No. No lies. Not to him, not ever.

He sends a prayer to all the men like him who’ve come before and his hands are shaking but he says in a half-cracked whisper, “You, Harry.” His heart feels like it’s floating, unmoored from its space in his chest, too weak with fear to beat in any coordination with his breathing. His temples pound and his movements are clumsy as he takes Harry’s hands and squeezes them. He can’t hear his voice but he thinks he’s saying, “You, Harry, always you” and he wonders if this is what it’s like to jump overboard as he tilts his head toward Harry and touches his lips to his and yes, this must be what it feels like, only the water he crashes into is warm and flows from a paradise where men kiss and make love and make history, even if no one ever knows it but the hands that wrote it.

And in no time at all Harry is pushing his lips desperately against John’s, no hesitation, no prelude of softness, only an unmasked and unashamed desire. And in no time, John has his hands on Harry’s cheeks, the slight roughness of his stubble feeling as good as velvet, as they move their heads this way and that, the soft kissing sounds and sighs and half-moans the quietest but most important symphony in the world. No instrument makes a lovelier noise than Harry Peglar in joy. Their hands are frenzied as they move on each other’s bodies and John accidentally touches the tip of his tongue to Harry’s and withdraws it but Harry tongues at John’s lips, trying to find it again. They shift on the floor and John is cradling Harry, he thinks they might look like some marble Renaissance statue of lovers embracing. The weight of Harry is so, so good that it’s almost painful when Harry unwraps his arms from John but the pain is completely forgotten as Harry is tugging John to the bed, grasping John on top of him as they lie back.

“Harry-” John manages as his head hits the pillow. “Are you sure you-”

Harry nearly sobs as he presses his chest flush with John’s. “I’ve been waiting so long. Not for anyone, but for you. Oh god, yes. Yes,” and that’s all the assurance John needs to stroke Harry’s back as Harry runs his tongue along John’s lips and then opens John’s mouth with his own. They begin to kiss each other in new places, the cheek, the neck, the hollow of the throat, Harry’s mouth so warm as he whispers, “You, John, you, I want this, I need this, I need you.” And this is what it feels like to be graced as they kiss and kiss and kiss.

I counted every kiss, John thinks later, after Harry has fallen asleep against his shoulder and John lays his cheek on Harry’s head. I couldn’t tell you the number, but I counted them, and they’re recorded in the book that reads “John Bridgens and Harry Peglar, Lovers”, on the spine.


End file.
